Baja California

The Baja Peninsula which reaches south from California USA, is a free zone, meaning Canadians and US citizens can travel freely without regular Mexican immigration documents, either personal or automotive. This is unsettling for people sensitized by border politics.

When we cross into Mexico at Nogales, there is a 40 mile drive to the Mexican Immigration Post, so we were not surprised in Tijuana when we saw no signs of Border Officialdom.

We drove expectantly along a coast in development mode. Huge new hotels in various stages of completion, were going up for whom? We wondered about Latinos in the South Western US.

Ensanada was clearly catering more to Latinos than your average Nortes. The French Restaurant where we went for a drink, had a full portrait of Louis XIV, flags of the provinces, familiar French pastries - napoleons and éclairs. Even the little tourist shops had elegant capes, not the standard shorts and bikinis of western vacation shopping.

When it came to immigration, the Port officials at Ensenada willingly stamped our passports and gave us our LMM forms, but shook their heads over the car. Some said we should go back to Tijuana, others said we could get our sticker in La Paz. That was the idea we liked best, so we spent a comfortable night in Ensenada and set off down the Baja the next day.

How deceiving maps can be. Our drive equals the distance from John O’Groats to Landsend. Two days of 7 hours of driving got us to La Paz. Cabo San Lucas is still another 3 hours away. Nothing prepared us for what we would see.

On a single lane highway we have driven more unnamed spectacular mountain passes than I can count, seen a look-alike microcosm of the scenery of Africa: the Cape mountains and valleys, with arable farmland growing Dricoll’s strawberries, beans, cilantro, and who-knows-what-else in great swaths of greenhouses; on the more arid slopes, vineyards; after San Quintin the landscape toughened into Karoo-like range for sheep and goats. After this we could have been in the South Eastern Hills of Botswana with rocky koppies dotted with aloes. Then flat topped mesas in the 25,000 square kilometer Reserva de la Biofera El Vizcainco, Latin America’s single largest protected area. We saw Boojum trees in abundance as well as cactus of all kinds, the most obvious being the candelabra.

Change again, to balancing rocks, rocks everywhere: mountains of rocks without a scrap of soil or sand to hold them together, rocks of every size and shape, scattered as far as the eye could see. As we moved on the boulders became smaller, and interspersed with sand and scrub. The hills had exposures of red rock, like Morocco on the edge of the Sahara. As we approached our night stop in Guerrero Negro, we drove through flat desert with only a skiff of vegetation.

Grey Whales luring tourists, and salt are the mainstays of this town. We were glad to fill our gas tank. Gas stations are rare in the centre of this peninsular.

The next day as we drove across the desert which soon blossomed with cacti again, we had no idea how much the elevation was changing. The road began to twist and turn and suddenly we caught a glimpse the Sea of Cortez, like a gem far below us. What a pass! Down and down we went, curve after hairpin bend, to the old copper mining town of Rosalia, where the reverb furnace, locomotive and mine machinery, sit as relics in the centre of this quaint town which hugs the coast. The mine closed in the 1950s and a Canadian mining company is currently trying to reopen it.

The drive for the next four hours was pass after pass, bay after sandy bay beside an azure sea. Off shore islands and the peninsular cradling Conception Bay, resulted in views that outshone anything we saw in Oregon or California, which by no means belittles their coast’s majesty. You will have to take my word for it. Driving was too intense for photography and there was simply nowhere to stop.

The drivers in the Baja ignore speed limits, though courtesy and safety are paramount. In the mélange of swanky BMWs, farmers’ pickups over laden with oranges, semi trailers as high as houses, long distance buses, local beat-up buses, smart SUVs, old Toyotas belching oil, and giant gleaming half-ton trucks cruising by at 130 KMH, I never once felt either scared or agitated. Driving here is more akin to dance than to danger which makes driving these varied roads so much more fun than multi-lane Interstates.

The Paz is east facing and a low-key, smaller version of Mazatlan, with a malecon, fishing boats and few multi-storied hotels. While Mazatlan’s main industry is fishing, La Paz has an oil refinery and its port is for the ferries which go to Guaymas, Topolopampo and Mazatlan on the east coast of the Sea of Cortez. The port and refinery are well hidden, south of the city.

The ferry schedule had changed from what was posted on the internet, so we had another day to enjoy this part of the Baja.  Buz was relieved to sort out the car’s immigration requirements.

We drove through more mountains to what is called the Cabo Riviera and stopped for lunch at Los Baries. We saw enough of the sort of tourism that makes our toes curl, to realize we wanted to go no further.

The mountains in each area of the Baja are different; their geology and vegetation varied. The southernmost range reminded me of eastern Zimbabwe with trees shaped like msasas, having the same grey and white trunk and branches. Even the colours of the rocks were similar, but the villages were Mexican. Delightful San Antonio with stalls selling dates, coconut ice, grapefruits and lemons. Leechie and citrus trees, dripping with fruit, lined the roadway, while palm trees clustered round the dry river bed below.

 The ferry to Topalobampo should have left at 2 pm and arrived at 7 pm, but our departure was delayed for an hour and a half.  Families traveling for the school holidays gave us a charmingly intimate view into Mexican life.  A free lunch of 3 tortillas, rice, beans and a choice of stew was served for two hours and everyone ate, around 700 of us, from the toddler to card-playing teen, the elegant grandmother to a man who might be a gangster. There was no complaining, no food on the floor, no waste.

At disembarkation only the drivers were allowed to the vehicles.  The passengers, mainly women with children and elderly parents, were required to line up to exit from the main deck.   It was eerily unsettling seeing the mostly able-bodied men lining up to go down the stairs, while the rest of us were herded in another direction, mother’s clutching babies and older siblings taking care of the younger ones. 

We’re back in Mexico, with all its dichotomies: its love of tradition and passion for novelty; its strength and fragility; its beauty and tackiness; its grace and its brutality.

Friday September 9^th 2011

I have set up camp on the northernmost of the Ing Islands, a collection of jade beads dropped in the middle of Amisk Lake.  This is the third time I have camped here.   I named this Otter Island because signs of otters are all around: freshwater mussel shells, crayfish claws and calciferous scat, but this is the first time I’ve actually seen one here.  She is swimming in the channel between this and the next island, and the only identification clue from this distance is her graceful glistening roll as she submerges.  She swims back and forth as night comes on, a gibbous moon materializing out of the deepening orange of humidity masking the eastern horizon.  A loon is calling and water laps gently on barely exposed rocks.

This day has been as hot as midsummer. I came through the portage at the south end of our bay shortly after noon, and sweat dripped into my eyes as I hauled the laden kayak across.  The corduroy logs laid for the voyageur canoes last year have all gone and with them the kayak’s easy glide.  What a relief reaching the final downhill and slipping the boat into the water.

I anticipated a cool swim at Silo beach, but somehow missed the split between islands leading there.  Island shapes are changed after the great wind of July 18.  The lake is up four feet or more, so islands have a very different shape and demeanor.  I found myself in unfamiliar territory and had the bizarre feeling I was dream travelling.  I came across the number 68  painted on a board on the land to my left, and checking the map, found I had transported myself far south.

At this stage I was still undecided where I would go. I had thought I might camp one night close to the east shore and go to the Ings the next day. I would have loved to go back to the area I  found last year, but realized those islands were so low in the water they might easily be flooded.  They were still some distance away with nowhere else to camp near them, so I could be in trouble.   Up ahead was an island that looked promising. A dark shape on the shore seemed odd for a rock shadow, and as I came closer it materialized into a black bear.  Though the bear looked sweet cavorting in the shallows, I took a wide birth.  Black bears become mean at this time of year when they have voracious appetites for fats and meat.  They can become predatory in the fall.

My mind made up, I headed west, across a wide expanse of water that no bear with any sense would bother to go.  The long paddle became a meditation, breathing as I made each stroke.

This island lost one tree to the storm.  A tall Balsam lies at the back of my tent, looking for all the world like a hedge. I hear what sounds like conversation.  On guano covered gull island pelicans, cormorants and gulls keep up a murmuring.  A white pelican flies close to the water in a graceful arc towards them.

I hear geese honking.  A skein is flying along the eastern horizon, lowering to the water toward Newfoundland Island where I wonder if  they will roost for the night. Perhaps the marsh grasses of the southern bays have more attraction. The moon is brightening as shadows lengthen.  A grebe is fishing just south of where I sit.  I can hear a plane flying high but see no trail.

Here in the middle of the lake I am about as far from human contact as I can be but still I hear a motorboat en route to the Sturgeon Weir River, buzzing into oblivion.  How long will I be able to experience this quality of solitude?  How long before the DNR forbids camping outside of designated sites?  I am so grateful.  Nothing compares to this peace as night comes on and another skein of geese flies close to the water.

Saturday September 10^th, 2011

Watching sunrise is spiritual.  Desert dwellers and fishermen are the first who come to mind as people who regularly see the sunrise. Three great religions came out of the desert, and every fishing port has its saint.  There is primeval gratitude for the sun’s appearance.  At home I am surrounded by trees and busyness, all I do is become aware of the sun and notice rather the lateness of its appearance.  Here I cannot help but join the people before me who sent up their hymns of praise as the gold tip of the sun sends its glittering path toward our hearts.

A bald eagle is looking for food to break the night’s fast.  Its flight pattern stutters with each possible sighting.  The water is so ruffled with tiny waves I wonder how he can see through them.  We must have food to sustain our flight.

A mouse has nibbled into my cookie bag.  I left it out, reasoning bears with easy pickings are less likely to destroy my property.  I never thought of smaller mammals.  Under a saucepan to keep it dry, a crumple of fire-starting paper has provided a perfect nest for the mouse.  We startle each other and it dashes off, disabused of its belief that a benign goddess had bestowed shelter for winter, and food!

How easily I fall into the pattern of thinking that says possessions are bad.  All the stuff I have here is for survival and yes, comfort.  The mouse illustrates.  We can do with less, but when fortune provides, we take what we can get.  Two pairs of shoes? Yes.  One pair which grips slimy underwater rocks, and a dry pair to walk easily over rocky slopes.  A chair.  I could sit on rocks, but my chair with its back and arm rest is so much more comfortable.

It is no accident that all my stuff fits in the kayak.  Human nature is to fill every space we have.  And more!  The problem is cleaning our nests of the debris of past selves, the selves we have outgrown. Clothes, kitchen utensils, saved containers, boxes of memorabilia I sift through each spring and fall, paring it down as more comes in.

The sun will soon rise over top of the tree that’s shading me.  It is already hot so I must take off into the islands to find a cool place to spend the part of the day my camp is in full sun.

Exploring the islands I was not aware of the wind picking up until round noon when white caps began crashing against the rocks nearby.  I have been storm stranded in the Ing Islands before and knew I didn’t want to be caught for yet another round.  Where would I camp next, I thought as I packed.  The wind was from the south west so I needed somewhere sheltered on an eastern shoreline.  Nowhere came to mind, except Sandy island way to the north with miles of open water inbetween.   The wind  buffeted the kayak around and waves were breaking into it as I tried again and again to get in.  Success at last, I paddled quickly into a spot sheltered by willows, tightened the kayak skirt, and set off towards the nearest land to the north, Stovepipe Island. 

I  paddled diagonal to the waves.  Concentration was essential as at any time a big wave could swing me and break broadside.   I don’t like the skirt but I was grateful this time.  Without it I would have shipped a lot of water.  On the lee of Stovepipe island I caught my breath then headed for the chain of islands west of Chamley.  The wind was swinging to north west, but the waves hadn’t all caught up.   I faced some from the north and some from the west, sometimes having waves coming at me from front and side.  It was heavy going and all I could do was keep paddling, looking ahead at the landmass and calculating how far I could swim. Though the wind was blowing harder than ever, my balance and the kayak’s buoyancy were my trump cards and I was confident.   

 I headed for a break in the tree line. Between two islands sat a smaller one, nicely sheltered.   I know how when I’m in unfamiliar territory, I can look and pass up potential spots. Today  I had to make a decision before 5 pm.  Getting my camp set up and a hot meal inside me before nightfall was essential.  The weather was changing.  How far the temperature may drop was the scare factor.

As luck or misfortune would have it, the decision was made for me.  I prepared to land in a cleft with a shallow rock ledge leading up to it.  Rarely do I find such an ideal place to get out of my boat.  I placed my right foot on the ledge, not realizing there was a fissure in the rock under the kayak. This was limestone, not the Precambrian rock I was used to.  It also had a totally different flora, fine and slimy. My foot slipped into the crack, under I went and over went the kayak.  Getting to a sitting position, I prevented the kayak from turtling, and began throwing off the stuff packed on top, and started bailing with my plastic sandal.  When the kayak was light enough I eased it on to land and unpacked some more.  Finding a saucepan made the bailing quicker.  Soon the kayak was up on the rocks and I was hanging stuff out to dry in the sun.

Everything was sodden, except my clothes which we packed the old fashioned way – a garbage bag inside a back pack.  The dry packs had all let in water. My soaked fanny pac contained my camera.

There was just enough level space for the tent and I set it up to dry, then made myself a hot meal.  By the time I went to bed my night clothes, sleeping bag, mattress and pillows were dry so I had a really good night’s sleep. I woke once, smelling smoke, so had to get out to quiet  irrational anxiety nagging that the island was aflame. Smoke from fires far to the north was being carried by the wind which was whipping trees to and fro on the far side of the adjacent island. In this sheltered channel all was calm.   The moon, nearly full, poured its silver over the water towards me.

Getting out of my tent for the sunrise was a disappointment. The well-treed island to the east and low cloud, obscured it.  As the hidden sun rose, the clouds flashed coral pink then turned charcoal grey when it disappeared behind them.  There is a chill in the air and I am glad of my layers of sweaters.  Gone are the shorts of yesterday, replaced by polar fleece.  I sip my tea and my mind goes back to this historic date – September 11. 

Finally the sun appears, filling the water with its glistening trail of light.  This brilliant path to the sun, to the moon last night, is dependent on me.  Without me, it would not point here.  Somehow this realization missed me when as a child I learned about my shadow.  Until now I never thought the same physics applied: whoever looks toward the sun or moon over water, where ever they are, the path leads to them.  Our own personal path to light.

I set off to explore first the island to the west and then those north of it.  They are limestone and with their blockish shapes and reindeer moss they are enchanting.   Russell told me years ago that there was a  group of limestone islands  he explored as a kid. He didn’t know any names, neither could he explain exactly where they were.  These have to be Russell’s islands.  They are just south west of Isquasoo Island, where I saw the deer last summer.

 I found a pebble beach, exquisite painting spots and several areas to camp.  This is right off the beaten track and it is obviously not a fishing spot, so it is just my kind of place. I think I can get home whatever the weather, which certainly beats the Ing Islands.  I’m getting too old for being holed up for days because of bad weather!

It is still.  The sky is a uniform grey. Something is changing in the weather. We are on the cusp of summer and fall.   Loons are calling their long mournful cry and a group of cormorants make a dark line in the water.  Perhaps they are ready to migrate. My bags are packed.   I start to make my leisurely way home, exploring more islands as I go.   A light rain begins to fall.  Each drop hitting the water creates an exclamation point then a bubble.    Three bald eagles, sheltering in trees watch my yellow umbrella and red kayak move across a mirror covered with shining bubbles and exclamations.

Part 4: Mexico's Copper Canyon

As bird watching is best done close to dawn, we make an early start, picking up a picnic lunch from Veronica's and fruit and water from the market.  As we drive out of town, Noel points out an opulent, red roofed hotel overlooking the valley.

"Built by Olympic Narcos" he says.  They were arrested at the Sydney Olympics in 2000 and the name stuck.  The lodge where we stop is lowly in comparison.  The Sierra Lodge has no electricity but there are oil lamps and fireplaces in the rooms leading off the veranda and it is set in a river valley, far away from the noises of civilization. Pines cover the mountain slopes.


We follow the river, crossing a rickety bridge that has me concentrating hard to keep my cool.  The river is at drought level and runs in channels through wide expanses of sand and stone. There are pools of clear, ice cold water, frozen in places.  Large boulders and areas of grass give a pastoral feeling.

We see the colourful Western Blue Bird and Mexican Blue Jay and the occasional bright skirts of Raramuri women. 

The Cusarare falls are high and delicate with such a small quantity of  water spraying downwards,  it is easy to cross the shelf above them.  The water only inches deep with many dry stepping stones.

Lori has a charming interchange with two young girls who play a hiding game with their blanket.  I buy a nesting basket and a simple applique bag to hold my camera. Further along the path I stop to buy a tiny scorpion exquisitely crafted from copper wire.  A woman knitting nearby is so absorbed watching us, she drops a ball of wool which bounces down across our path and down again out of sight. She laughs and we can't help ourselves.  Shared laughter is such a magical connection.

We eat our lunch of burritos  in front of the lodge overlooking the river while a very hairy pig snuffles his way below us. A Canyon Wren hops in and out of the eaves.

Arriving in the village of Cusarare, we hear the sounds of someone practicing the electric guitar.  A peach tree blossoms outside the guitarist's wooden home.  Houses are simple and widely spaced between corn fields ready for planting.  Low stone walls and wire fences enclose the fields. There is no graffiti and very little garbage.

We see chickens, sheep, goats, pigs and horses.  There is a door and window set in a rock face but no other signs of cave dwelling.   Noel point to a sports field with bleachers and tells us basketball is very popular.  He tells is alcohol and smoking are not part of everyday life. 

An old man with one leg is sitting on the ground splitting short logs.  He has carved spoons out of Madron, smooth and with a deep bowl.  What a pleasure to use such a utensil.  Lori and I each buy one. As we enter the church, Noel tells us the Raramuri are nearly all Catholic. There are no pews.  The congregation prefers to sit on the wooden floor. The whitewashed walls are decorated with designs picked out in clay.  Front and centre is Virgin of Guadalupe over top of a huge Mexican flag.

The caretaker brings  out his chapareke.  This is a stringed instrument which is plucked and blown, creating a soft haunting  Jew's Harp-like sound.  One of the melodies  he plays is called The beautiful blue sky.

The Valley of the Monks is a clue that though as  Noel says, the Raramuri are Catholic, there has been a great deal of whitewashing native spirituality.  These rocks bare no resemblance to monks, other than what is common to all males.  We climb, wondering how these formations came about.

Driving to another set of rock formations, these like mushrooms, we encounter an ancient couple on a horse drawn cart. Without a tooth in their heads, their smiles are utterly content. The horses' halters are lovingly padded with coloured fabric.  We long to photograph these lovely old people, but cannot.  Noel finishes his conversation with them and drives on, explaining the case of coke the couple have on the cart.

"Raramuri love to watch basketball, drinking coke with peanuts dropped in the bottle."  He laughs affectionately.  Noel's wife is Raramuri and he himself is of mixed ancestry.  He tells us he worked as a porter for the railroad when he saw her selling baskets.  They ran away together the day they met.

I ask what her parents thought about that.  His reply:
"They got used to us."

We stop at a cave where a woman has crafts for sale. Noel tells us she lives in the cave, but I am not so sure.  There are houses round about and this has not even a hint of the simplest form of comfort.  Perhaps it was once used, but now it seems to be the place where the chickens roost and farm utensils are stored.  No doubt  it brings  a steady income from tourists who are unlikely to clamber down the canyon slopes to inspect a family home.  We leave our donation in the basket provided and return to Creel.

I wonder how the Raramuri can ever resist the pressure of Western Civilization.  Noel tells us that the Mennonites in Chihuahua like to hire Raramuri men as labour on their farms at times of peak work, and both groups like each other.  I picture the Mennonite women I have seen in Manitoba with their simple black bonnets, and long dresses, and think perhaps their friendship gives hope to Raramuri survival.

Part 3: Mexico's Copper Canyon

Morning air in the mountains is crisp and cool.  We dress in warm jackets, mitts and hats and set off for a pre-breakfast walk, accompanied by one of the hotel dogs.  We walk north and find a path going up the hill behind the hotel.  The slope is well treed with many varieties of pine and oak.  Though the path is not steep, I am soon gasping for breath.  The change from sea-level to an altitude of 7800 feet has my eyes pulsing with my extra-stressed heart.

We eat breakfast in front of the oak embers of last night's fire, then get a ride to 3 Amigos where we meet Salvador.  We decide to have an easy day to give us a chance to acclimatize to the altitude, so decide to take the tour which goes back to Divisadero. After Salvador phones the guide, we talk about our interest in birds.
"You have the perfect guide.  I'll call Noel back and see he brings his bird book."

Little do we know what a gem we have as our guide. In appearance Noel  is short and compact with plenty of silver and gold on his teeth. With his head to one side, hands in pockets, he seems at first a little shy and diffident.  He has no reason to be.  He speaks  clear and idiomatic English and his knowledge of birds, their song, their flight patterns, their behaviours, their names in English Spanish and Latin is quite something .  As we set off toward Divisadero he gives room for those of us eager to speak Spanish, and he's an excellent teacher.

He tells us about the Raramuri who live in the canyons.The Raramuri live sometimes in caves and sometimes in houses of wood or stone chinked with mud.   The canyon floor is in a sub tropical climate zone, so an ideal place for them to live in winter.  In summer they migrate to higher land where they raise their principal crop, maize, along with beans and squash.  Some keep chickens and goats. 

Moving up and down the canyon walls is part of their everyday life and as a result they are extremely athletic.  Their running ability is coming to the notice of the modern world, both in athletic circles and the drug trade, which makes use of Raramuri men to transport drugs out of the canyons.

Noel tells us the Raramuri are shy and do not want charity or to be drawn into the western style of life.  The were persecuted by the Spanish, and have survived thanks to their chosen isolation. We stop at the Oteros box canyon where a Raramiro woman has crafts for sale. Smiles are not exchanged as a matter of course.  I buy a tortoise carved from the bark of a Ponderosa pine, and Lori tries to converse using words from her brochure.  It is perplexing, this interface between cultures.  Should one try to communicate?  Could this go against their desire for separateness?  If they find us likable, will they want more contact with others "like" us and what will this mean for them?  This is something we ponder as we have more contact through the next few days.

In Divisidero we eat stuffed gorditas at one of the many food stalls then have a good look at all the crafts set out for sale.  One of the Raramuri women holds a child perhaps three years old, with an horrific hare lip.  Teeth grow this way and that in the exposed gums. The sight of this grotesque little face is immeasurably sad.

Our next stop is the brand new cable car, the teleferico, which has been in operation for 5 months.  Top engineering and technology have created a cable system with no secondary supports, one and a half miles long.  This costs 200 pesos per person, free for guides and Raramuri.  My head for heights being severely challenged, I perhaps don't enjoy the views as much as my companions, but once on the pinnacle known as the Eagle's Nest, with my feet firmly on earth, I can marvel at the  complex of Urique, Copper and Tararecue canyons. We are followed by a 12 year old Raramuri, her little sister on her hip.  She wears the classic sandals consisting of soles laced with thongs which wrap many times above the ankle, and she is perfectly sure footed on the rough terrain.  Noel said she  no doubt hiked up  from a cave far below, and was just friendly - didn't want money at all.  I suspect she found us interesting, objects of curiosity.


A zip liner comes across the chasm and travels on the return trip with us.  I feel more relaxed and can take in the bricked caves and other free-standing homes and tiny corn fields on canyon shelves.   As we near the station we see climbing aids set in the rock wall.  This really is a world class facility which will be extended further in coming years.



We walk along the rim, getting to know the local trees.  The Madron and the Manzanita shrub are particularly striking with their red bark.  A lame scruffy black dog who has adopted Andrew thanks to a proffered lettuce leaf, accompanies us on a steep walk to a high plateau where there is a circle of stones used for the Raramuri games.  The evening light on this grassy peninsular of rock jutting out above the canyon is magical.

We are all dropping with sleep on the drive back to Creel.  We eat our evening meal in a fine little restaurant called Veronica's.  Unfortunately we are assailed by musical atrocities so bad that when the perpetrator passes around his hat, we cannot support his delusion by tossing in so much as a peso.

Part 2: Copper Canyon

The squeaks of a resident geko and the crows of roosters communicating over a wide radius, bring the comfort of the African night of our early years back to Buz and I. The morning dawns alive with birds. Andrew is the first out with his binoculars, enchanted with hummingbirds sipping at feeders around the breakfast tables. He spots a Tiger-Heron on the river bank. The trees are filled with bird song. A sheep and four goats feed from their new hay bale beneath the balcony.

The train station is some distance from the town. It is little more than a waiting room and tickets have to be purchased on the train. We buy maps and a book on the canyon from an itnerant saleswoman and examine these as we wait in the sun.

Boarding the train has all the thrill of journey's past, and memories of Botswana and South Africa come to mind as we pass through rocky hills, savannah dotted with mixed breed, long-horned cattle. We park our luggage and talk to an Australian couple who are on a whirwind trip taking in Chihuahua, Acupulco and Cuba. Sitting in the bar with its wide windows and panoramic views we notice the hills become steeper with more cacti, then we cross our first long bridge, then a tunnel and we are into the Copper Canyon System.

We go through tunnel after tunnel, bridge after bride, gazing at high canyon walls and dramatic jutting rock formations. On the route to the city of Chihuahua there are 73 tunnels and 23 major bridges. Work began on El Chepe railway in the early Twentieth Century and was only completed in the 1960s. The engineering is impressive. At one point the tracks make a gyre-like loop, rising all the time. We see the rails we have just travelled upon, now far below. At San Rafael we see our first Tarahumari or Raramuri as they call themselves. Unsmiling women gaze open eyed at us, holding baskets up for sale. They are made from fresh pine needles. The sweet aroma lingers.

The train stops for 15 minutes at Divisadero where there is a market beside the train station. There are stalls where women sell aromatic gorditas, plump corn tortillas sliced and filled. Other display baskets, shawls, dolls, necklaces and wood carvings. Buz finds just the walking stick he has been looking for. We make our way through the vendors and stand at a railing at the top of a precipitous drop. Interlinking canyons stretch away into the distance. The system is much younger than the Grand Canyon, and rather than bare canyon walls, the less steep canyon sides here are carpeted with vegetation. An estimated 70,000 Raramuri live in homes, often caves in the canyons, farming on patches of somewhat level ground and terraces in much the same way they have done for aeons, giving a human element to this inspiring lanscape.

When we disembark at Creel, countless tour and lodge reps bombard us. We had made a plan that Lori and I would sit in the plaza with our luggage while the men look for a place to stay, so we leave the hussle behind. Sadly on our arival in the plaza an elderly tour rep makes an utter nissance of himself and won't leave us alone. A younger man comes out of the tour's kiosk and apologises for him, but not before we have become thoroughly irritated. The old man sits on the bench opposite us, making lip-taping getures. We fume. A truck stops, and the woman driver who could be his wife, talks to him. How can anyone live with this mosquito of a man? Though the sun is warm, the shade is cool. When Andrew and Buz arrive in a truck, we jump right in, ready to accept anything - for a night.

We spend four nights at Pueblo Viejo which is a collection of pine and stone buildings set into a rocky hillside. There is something eccentric about the place. Buildings have names: Buz and I are housed in La Cueva. There is a jail and even a mock twin-spired church. There are three dogs, two cats and countless collectables: many of what might be called meat grinders but which are also used for milling corn, all rowed up on window ledges. There are sewing machines, wood stoves, plough parts, wagon wheels, saddles, hide stretchers and two chrome yellow Ford trucks, vintage 1950 and 1951.

There is a central kitchen besdie an elegant restaurant with a double-faced fireplace. Through the kitchen is a cantina which has more memorabilia: musical instruments, Raramuri baskets, and photos taken by the Playboy crew who visted four years ago. In one, a provocatively posed modle kneels in front of the fireplace where we eat an evening meal prepared specially for us: beef ribs sliced against the grain and seared on iron plates laid on the coals. The meat is simply delicious, having no flavoring other than salt.

The owner and builder of Pueblo Viejo, Xavier, is expansive and canny. Times are tough in the tourist industry everywhere in Mexico but even more so in the canyons where drug cartels are rumoured to have their secret grow ops. Xavier is full of good intentions, but it takes several requests before we get hot water in our shower. The water runs brown with rust. There seem to be no other guests, though he talks of a large group of 20 or 30 arriving tomorrow. He brings out his guitar and it is clear he has not played for a while. He wants to sing romantic songs but can't remember the words. He smiles when Lori sings Romeo come home.

"You write and sing what's right for your voice," he says. Then he plays a rousing Mexican song with Paulo, his toothless sidekick, doing the vocals.

Earlier, when we sat in the evening sun, listening to the sounds of geese from a neighbouring farm, a Canadian woman we met on the train walked through the gateway looking for the San Ignacio Mission. She had seen the mock church spires and hoped this was it. She was amazed to hear we were from Saskatchewan.

"I just met a couple on the train from there," she said.

How travel disorientates, re- orientates us, concertinaing time, bringing past to present, tossing memory into shimmers of bubbles catching the light. All is open, anything is possible.

Part 1: Mexico's Copper Canyon visit March 2011

The bus cruises north from Mazatlan, through hills covered with thick mixed scrub forest. There are patches of yellow and mauve where a few tree species are flowering before their spring leaves come in. We pass orchards of trees brown-leaved from the extreme cold weather which slunk into northern Mexico two weeks ago.

We are on our way to Mexico's Copper Canyon, El Barranca del cobre, four friends who came together thanks to the internet: Buz and I from Canada and Andrew and Lori from San Francisco. Throughout the coming days I find myself grateful for a travelling companion who has no compunction about asking questions. Lori's first inquiry with the bus driver, clears an uncomfortable mystery which had us wondering if some constipated body was contorted in the washroom. A key is required!

Non-stop movies are a feature of high-end buses here and action movie sound effects assail our ears as a serene mountain range appears to our east. The blue of agave plantations contrasts with rich green irrigated fields. After Culiacan we go through a pass, all ochre and grey rock faces and hillsides dotted with cactus and grey shrubs.

There is a roadside shrine, and in the outskirts of Guamuchil, police cruisers and a mororcycle on its side. A little further on the road is being widenened and three crosses from a less recent accident, with their drum-like bases of cement, lay on their sides waiting for re-potting.

At Los Mochis we find we have to get to another bus depot, and catch a cab which belches gas fumes into our lungs but gets us to the El Fuerte bus just in time. We climb aboard and find ourselves in totally different travelling circumstances. A cheery fellow tosses chocolate bars on everyone's lap. Freebees? Gifts? Oh, no. The vendor returns to collect payment, and the passengers who don't want them, hand the bars back. A smart marketing ploy. Buz pays for his.

The bus seems to be run by a family - Dad drives, Mom collects the fares and son carries people's bags and rides shotgun on a seat by the door. Cheerful banda music plays and people get on and off frequently. This is a country-style commuter bus, with many regular passengers greeted warmly as they ride home from work.

We are unsure where to get off as we enter El Fuerte, but noticing that everyone but us is disembarking on a shady street, we figure this is as much of a bus depot as we are going to see. A cab takes us up the steepest road imaginable to Rio Vista, the lodge recommended to us by Yolanda of 3 Amigos, the most helpful tour operators we could have wished for. Birds are on all our trip wish lists and Rio Vista has the top guide.

A castle-like fort and the graceful curve of the river take our breath away. Our rooms look out on this? We sit overlooking a magical landscape while bats pour out of the castle walls and into the twilight. We eat out doors: langoustine and black bass. Then on to planning our itinerary. We have ten days and know for sure that Creel, in Chihuahua, will be our first base. To end our trip we want to spend at lease one full day in El Fuerte. We trust the train journey and the experiences of those we meet will help us decide the stops in between.